


Chantry Boy Shorts

by felandaris



Series: Another Place And Time [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Addiction, Alistair is a big boy, Alistair's lips, Anxiety, Babies, Blow Jobs, Boobistair, Breast Play, Chantry Boys, Character Death, Cullenlingus, Cunnilingus, Dad!Cullen, Desk scene, Dom/sub, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Lyrium, Massage, Masturbation, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Nipple Play, Panic Attacks, Pegging, Scents & Smells, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Sparring, Strap-Ons, Swordplay, Trespasser Spoiler, dad!alistair, finger licking, good morning, happy new year, headcanons, in one chapter only, tags to be updated, waking up together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 17,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felandaris/pseuds/felandaris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of wee Tumblr drabbles involving two certain ex-Templars. Smut, fluff, angst- a bit of everything. And art! Lots of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chantry Boy's Scent

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm on baby hiatus but still can't stop writing. Rated Explicit for future chapters.
> 
> Any Cullen/Alistair/Trevelyan drabbles will be added to the _Caboodles and Chantry Boys_ series.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the lovely [Lehira-Rutherford](http://lehira-rutherford.tumblr.com) (whom you should totally follow).

**Commander Cullen** ‘s slicked-back curls give off a hint of pomade mingled with a light note of lavender from his hair soap.

The timid floral bouquet transitions into earthy aromas of fur, leather and the outdoors- grass, rain and a whisper of sweat.

Once the armour is off the few people who get to see him without will notice clean, almost sweet sandalwood and perhaps a distant touch of vanilla, particularly from his neck and chest.

When his lips glisten just a little in the candle light and his breath smells sticky-sweet you’ll know he’s treated himself to a honey roll, possibly accompanied by a cup of hot cocoa.

If he hasn’t been handling steel and polish, his surprisingly soft hands will bear the scent of Antivan almond from the lotion he affords for himself.

 

 

 

 

**King Alistair’s** skin recalls the outdoors far less than it used to. Nowadays one has to come a little closer to detect _him_ under the exquisite assortment of pricey care products.

His head of ginger is usually enveloped in a layer of wheatgerm from the oil he massages into his scalp. The smell tends to be stronger whenever he decides to grow his hair out (mostly to annoy any Orlesian visitors and much to Advisor Eamon’s misery).

Were one’s nose to traverse down his neck, it would detect delicate traces of orange blossom and cinnamon- though the latter could stem from indulgence in his favourite pastries.

Past his shoulders and further down his chest citrus scents mix with musk to form a headier concoction, particularly if the day was spent in a plush uniform.

The royal hands merely bear the pure smell of skin as he prefers an odourless ointment.

His Majesty’s full lips, however, carry the faintest note of rose water, a small rub of which keeps the skin soft and supple.


	2. Many Happy Returns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Happy New Year!](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/136347428083/many-happy-returns)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This drabble is dedicated to [Orban/Cantkeepmyeyesoff](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Orban), purveyor of the most amazing screen caps[ on Tumblr](http://cantkeepmyeyesoff.tumblr.com).

It starts with a smile that lingers just in his eyes; in the crinkle of barely-there lines, the glow of caramel blending into hazel.

A broad hand cups your face, the warm drag of tender fingers leaving your skin tingling with giddy shivers.

As he closes in his warmth and scent engulf you, draw you in. His chin tilts, as does yours, and the hand now winds into your hair.

Then, upon the chime of midnight, the cheers drown out with the soft press of his lips upon yours. It’s with a sigh that you allow him to gently pry open your mouth in a kiss that recalls struggles overcome, battles won and lost, precious moments shared.

His lips mould onto yours perfectly as ever, but tonight they taste even sweeter.

Fingers dig into shoulders, breaths quicken. Just as your tongue is about to stroke his he withdraws, and you cannot hold back a whimper.

Around you fireworks and bells still play their own distant melody as he takes your hand, bringing it up to his mouth. Finger by finger is caressed with a feather-light peck, and he looks at you from under scandalously long lashes.

This time the smile brightens his entire face, a warm and brilliant promise of more.


	3. Girth (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this gorgeous NSFW sketch](http://fufunette.tumblr.com/post/136112121997/cullenstairshenanigans-fufunette-am-working)by Fufunette.

Warmth. _Fullness._ A hasty inhale. Her lips stinging as they stretch around the head.

When her fingers barely encircled his shaft Flore had an idea he’d feel big in her mouth. Now she’s trying to breathe through her nose, still clutching the base, uncertain what to do.

Then his eyes catch hers, a shy plea in molten amber. She moves. Tilts her head down just a little then freezes at the sound he makes. When she realises it was one of pleasure she smiles and moves another fraction.

Alistair’s fingers dig into thin linens, and he makes _that_ noise, that little falsetto croak she so cherishes. It stokes her desire, her pride, and she slides all the way down his length until her nose hits upon coarse ginger frizz.

Alistair _wails_ , his hips jerking up, driving him further down her throat. Flore’s eyes sting from the strain and she’s drooling into his thatch of hair. But she c a n n o t  stop now, driven by an almighty need to tease, to pleasure, to _make him come._

A deep breath soaks up his smell, his musk, utter intoxication.

Holding his stare, Flore licks up his length in languid indulgence. She relishes his skin’s texture in her tongue, the irate pulse of that thick vein.

Once at the top she raises an eyebrow before her tongue flicks out again to circumvent the head, licking at him like the most delightful sweet.

Another moan, another hapless buck of the hips. Alistair’s cheeks are flushed, his lids heavy, chest heaving. _He’s at her mercy._

She smiles again, her mouth still full of him. When she lets go, he slips from her mouth with a wet, obscene _plop_ , and she hisses at the throb between her legs. Flore’s own face is burning, want  coiling deep in her tummy. She licks her lips, coaxing a needy groan from Alistair. For a while they talk simply through their eyes, their poise, through heavy breaths.

“So, ” she purrs at last, “did you like that?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fufunette has since finished the piece and added her own continuation of the scene- [check it out](http://fufunette.tumblr.com/post/136253593597/fufunette-moans-heavily-flore-whispered)!


	4. Feel (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just you and Cullen

See the dreamy trail of fading sunshine playing in his hair, highlighting strands of gold as he closes in.

Watch his eyes darken, the scar twitch and supple lips curve into _that_ smile.

Let him invade your space, let his warmth creep up around you.

Lean into his touch, his strength.

Inhale his scent- leather and soap and _him_ stroking your senses.

Relish the glow spreading through you, rousing your body; mirroring his own unravelling arousal that’s born out of his love, his devotion.

Listen to his breath quickening, to the hint of voice in his shallow exhales.

Respond.

Sigh into his kiss, the gentle exploration of his lips; promise of what you’ve been _aching_ for.

Arch into his touch. Into the palm cupping your breast, the thumb drawing those little circles.

Wrap your legs around his waist, open yourself up for him.

Meet the rolls of his hips, moan when his heat presses against where you’re soft and ready for him.

Lie back and let him worship you.


	5. Strength (TW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen shows Lea she can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Madelief](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Madelief/pseuds/Madelief), using her Cullen and Lea Trevelyan.
> 
>  **Trigger warning** for panic attacks!
> 
> I wrote this without any research so apologies for any inaccuracies.

Lea’s vision remains blurred with the tears that won’t stop coming, her arms shaking, chest heaving with the persistent tremors.

She’s trying for even breaths, for calm, confidence, but the sudden, out-of-nowhere panic keeps its grip firm. “I can’t,” she whimpers to nobody but the desk she’s leaning on, the desk she’ll crash into if her legs give in like they might any minute.

At this moment she’s truly and utterly alone, fear and despair her only companions.

“Yes,” comes the voice from behind, preceding the hands sliding around her forearms holding her in place, “you can.”

A new wave of shock hits her at the sound, at the realisation of being exposed, and she spasms, wilder than before. But Cullen is there, grasping her waist now, his chest a wall of warmth and strength; his breath urging her own to slow; his scent familiar and reassuring.

“You can,” he repeats with soothing insistence, his lips finding the crown of her hair.

And in between the shakes, the tremors and the devastating resignation she realises he’s right.


	6. Taste (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this suggestively delicious piece by feralise](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/134540250203/feralise-taste-ill-just-leave-this-ones)

Her breathing picks up with each inch the digit edges closer to his mouth. His scar twitches in an all-too familiar smirk as he watches her writhing, craving.

At last the glistening finger brushes across his bottom lip, and he holds her stare as his tongue flicks out to lap up the thin coating of her juice.

But it’s not until those plump lips close in a noisy suck that she moans. His brow pinches in delight as his head falls back. Cheeks hollow and a quiet hum escapes him as he savours his favourite treat, leaving her desperate, empty.

Her eyes fixate on the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. When he looks back at her that smirk has widened a fraction, as have his pupils.

“ _De_ -licious,” he purrs.


	7. Imagine Alistair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little fluff?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by Alistair's lips- mood picture [here](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/134709892523/imagine-alistair)

Imagine the tickle of pouty lips at the nape of your neck gently rousing you from a night’s slumber.

Imagine stretching back against his torso, smooth, taut comfort.

Imagine the scent of man and morning and _Alistair_ greeting you as you sluggishly roll over.

Imagine those hazel eyes with the little flecks of green being the first thing you see- warm as the rays of sunshine stroking your arms.

Imagine him smiling as he kisses you good morning.


	8. Imagine the Silence (TW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a less popular ending to Trespasser- please mind the warnings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This piece is based on the "Cullen taking Lyrium + Inquisition disbanded" ending to Trespasser so it comes with three major warnings:
> 
>  
> 
> **Trespasser spoiler, addiction and upsetting content (character death).**

Imagine the disbanded Inquisition’s core reuniting for a night.

Imagine the hearty food, the cold drinks, the cheerful music.

Imagine the laughter, the chatter, the tales of new lives, homes and families.

Then imagine the abrupt silence at the mention of the Val Chevin beggar in his final days of lyrium enslavement.

Imagine the stillness creeping across the table as former colleagues and companions remember that man as they knew him, struggling to picture what had become of him.

Imagine the stares at half-empty tankards, the abandoned Wicked Grace cards, the occasional suppressed sob when it gradually sinks in just how much his voice, his laughter, his warmth is missing tonight.

Imagine the rest of the evening with its forced smiles and haphazard conversation as everyone wonders what they could have done and why they didn’t.

Imagine the quiet goodbyes, the downcast looks when the group breaks up, shameful remorse forever walking with them all.


	9. Restlessly inadequate (TW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Facebook prompt: Anxiety

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one comes with a trigger warning for, well, anxiety. Might not put this on Tumblr just yet.

It burns, now.

  
He’s used to the pressure, that sensation resembling a Qunari-sized boot bearing down on his chest. But the burn is new, sharp and acidic. A very fitting complement to his hammering pulse, to the persistent sting in his temples.

  
He’d wonder about his healt were it not for his thoughts racing around in his head, showing him exactly what’s happening. That dreaded indecisiveness keeping him from actually making himself useful somehow, somewhere- _should he finish up the reports or meet with the quartermaster first? Which will make the best use of everyone’s time and show people that he is, after all, capable of this job?_

  
Cullen sighs, groaning in frustration when he realises he’s pacing again. At least the main door is locked, he thinks with a pang of relief. _Or is it?_ A new wave of panic surges through him as he strides towards the office’s entrance, rattling the handle to find it locked indeed. Shaking his head at his silliness, he walks to his desk, slowly and deliberately, forces himself to sit down.

  
What he wouldn’t give to be doing a drill now. Wielding, blocking, moving; looking and feeling confident. Being thoroughly in his element rather than flapping haplessly like a fish out of water as he is now.

  
Something about the desk’s wooden texture he finds calming, soothing even, and so he focuses on the dark surface, tracing even darker lines with tired eyes.

  
As his irises stoically follow decade-old swirls, he catches sight of a piece of paper with _her_ writing on it. And somehow that tight shield of self-doubt is permeated, just a little, by reason.

  
She has, after all given him her heart, her love, her hand even. Squeezing his eyes shut for a second to block out all the nagging eventualities their wedding entails, he manages to hold the thought. If she, the Inquisitor, Andraste’s own Herald, is ready to spend the rest of her days with him, could that be a testament to his personality, after all? To his capabilities? And might his colleagues, after all, not be humouring him and even respect him?

  
Cullen doesn’t know the answers to these questions. But being able to ask them is an achievement of its own. A smile curls the corners of his mouth as his index finger brushes along her messy handwriting. The pressure in his chest is waning, eased by the tentative warmth of hope radiating through him. Cullen nods.

  
Then he pushes back his chair with extra fervour, opens the door and goes about his day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	10. Cullen in the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little headcanon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read on Tumblr](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/138778391083/Cullen-in-the-morning)

Cullen being the first person up in all of Skyhold; whether to escape Lyrium dreams or out of a deep sense of _duty_ forcing himself to rise well before the sun itself.  

Cullen, careful not to wake anyone, sneaking outside to run a few laps; relishing the harsh winds stroking his face, blowing clarity into his mind as he goes faster, and faster yet.  

Cullen, the Commander, never failing to be the first man at the training grounds, thoroughly frustrating that eager recruit who thought this time he’d get there before him. 

Cullen sparring with his men, experiencing his very own catharsis in the fresh sweat, the rush of adrenaline, even in the small nicks of awkwardly wielded swords. 

Cullen smiling, squinting into rays of sunshine, barking orders though always with enthusiasm, with the conviction that he’s at last doing something good, something _meaningful_. 

Cullen washing the exertion off his body, counting scars old and new, taking just a little pleasure in his grooming routine. 

Cullen emerging clean, clear and focussed, ready to take on whatever the day may bring. 

Bonus:  Cullen, freshly washed and shaven, crawling back into bed with his love for just a precious little moment, embracing her much smaller frame and gently rousing her with the sweetest of kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon accepted? :)


	11. Listen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A thoroughly inadequate tribute to the wonder that is Alistair's voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Read on Tumblr ](http://Cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/138810338478/replicajester-cullenstairshenanigans)

Hear him speak, uncovering a playful melody within the most mundane statement.

  
Pay attention to how his pitch traverses from serious to whimsical then to suggestive; an innocent sentence laden with innuendo and invitation.

  
Watch his mimicry, the play of his mouth, the pink flash of his tongue.

  
Don’t miss the knowing sparkle in his eyes as he enunciates so carefully, so deliberately.

  
Let him caress the words, roll each sound on his tongue before it pours off those supple lips.

  
Allow his voice to caress _you_ , stroke your ear; allow his silken timbre to seep under your skin, trickle into your chest, your stomach, and _deeper_.

  
Lean into his warmth, his breath, the tip of his nose brushing along your hair.

  
Enjoy what follows the words.


	12. Surprising Him (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elissa tries something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 11 January 2016. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!

The tent’s dim lighting casts a play of shadows on their belongings, the bedroll and his body. Tight panes of muscle become a landscape of reliefs in shades of grey, and his crotch is bathed in mysterious dark. But his eyes she can make out. Focussed on her and her only, his gaze is both intrigued and nervous.

Elissa pauses for a deep breath, steadying her posture and her shaky hands. When she reaches for the purple flask he sits up trying to get a closer look, and the pattern of shadows shifts. Alistair’s hair is ruffled, and his neck may bear the slightest mark from their earlier kissing. His smalls now reveal themselves to be tented. She smiles when it strikes her how tonight it’s him undressed, waiting at her feet, while she’s standing up in her clothes dictating the pace. Arousal now pulses gently between her thighs.

She uncorks the small bottle the elf had given them “for special occasions”, trying not to flinch at the memory of his uniquely lecherous tone. Alistair watches as she pulls the cork, confusion clouding his expression. Elissa’s smile widens a fraction and the pulse comes a little harder.

Thankfully the oil’s fragrance is a pleasant concoction of almonds and perhaps cocoa rather than the heady floral bouquet she was dreading.

Setting the flask aside for now, she starts working on her tunic. Clasp by clasp Alistair’s eyes are glued to her fingers, observing with the keen concentration of the most eager student.

When the soft material hangs open she holds his stare for another moment, savouring the tremble of his parted lips and his obvious anticipation before taking it off. A flush to rival his ginger hair spreads across Alistair’s cheeks and his breathing picks up.

Again she pauses then reaches to undo her band. Alistair’s jaw drops along with the soft fabric, and his breath hitches.

Another smile curves her lips, devious and proud. Elissa’s nipples harden instantly in the timid breeze, under his attention. Her fingertips embark on a leisurely journey up her waist, across her ribs to draw tempting circles around her areolae, evoking the faintest whimper from her one-man audience.

Elissa’s tongue flicks out as she relishes his hapless reaction, his never-ending fascination with her bosom. It titillates as much as empowers her to think that her body, having shed its puppy fat only during her recent travels, can bear this allure; how it can leave a man a mindless, libidinous mess.

When she picks up the bottle again and her intentions become clear Alistair’s eyes widen. The oil is smooth and warm on her hands. As her slick palms grab hold of her breasts, Alistair produces a sound akin to that of a nug in heat. For a second she worries his nose might start bleeding.

But she continues, her own breath coming heavier as she presses down then kneads her breasts like she knows he so loves to. Humming at the pressure of her own hands, she watches the supple flesh changing shape, the stiff pink buds disappearing between her fingers.

When her chest is covered in a layer of warm slick she crouches down to straddle her man. Leaning forward, she allows her bosom to come just near enough to his face for his lips to part as if to suckle; bites her lip when his ragged breath strokes her taut peaks. Just as his tongue sneaks out for a taste she withdraws. This time he definitely sobs.

Elissa’s gasp belies her own need when her crotch brushes past his for a mere second. But she shuffles further down, raises an eyebrow when she settles with her torso over his groin and tugs at his smalls. Alistair obliges at once.

His prick _bounces_ free, falls back hard and heavy against that delectably tight abdomen. He’s fully erect, thick and dark and glistening at the top. Again confusion mingles with the desperate lust in his eyes. It’s not until she leans down that he finally understands. Alistair’s eyes nearly pop out of his face, and a thick vein pulses violently both on his forehead and his erection.

“Elissa,” he splutters, “Maker’s breath…”

She fails to stifle a moan of her own at the sight of her breasts falling heavy on either side of his cock, enveloping the rock-hard shaft between slick, soft flesh. Supported on her elbows, a testing squeeze of her hands brings her breasts, _her nipples_ , even closer, and they both groan.

Elissa’s chest is heaving along with Alistair’s as she watches her bosom jiggle around him from her heavy breaths. If she wasn’t sitting on the ground she’d be swooning, dizzy and lightheaded with feminine power as she is. She wants to watch, feel, _hear_ him slide up and down between her breasts; make him buck, moan, come for her; milk pleasure and seed from him.

It takes her a second to recognise her own voice when she presses out two throaty syllables under a shuddering breath.

“ _Ready_?”


	13. The Many Talents of Alistair Theirin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on frank-a-lank's [adorkably gorgeous Papa!Alistair art/a>.](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/132151692483/frank-a-lank-i-had-another-urge-to-draw)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 29 Oct 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!

Blade-wielding, cheese conoisseur-ing, country-ruling- all these rather impressive abilities of Alistair’s pale in comparison to the many skills he’s discovered since his son’s birth.

 

He’s found himself to be quite the storyteller, a purveyor of many a tale of frolic and fright (and griffons.)

 

A sturdy climbing rock he’ s also proven himself as, especially when tiny limbs begin their conquest of a sleeping Mount Papa in the early morning hours.

 

Even before Bryce’s arrival he tried himself at the work of a seer, a predictor of movement inside his wife’s round belly. Admittedly his efforts were rather lacking in accuracy. He’s already told Eryn they’ll need to have another child ( _and then one after that_ ) so he can practise.

 

Many a time has he served as a tireless transport mule, escorting his passenger through the depths of Denerim Palace (not at all to the amusement of its entire staff).

 

Much to his own surprise, Alistair has evolved into a rather competent singer, entertaining much of the court with his renditions of Bryce’s favourite songs. His queen has rather taken to his smooth baritone, requesting frequent private performances in their chambers.

 

He’s also become a master carpenter, counting among his works a bed that’s also Weisshaupt fortress.

 

Alistair is now also a fearless hunter of beasts large and small, whether under beds, in closets or the cellar. Once he even chased a giant, four-headed Hurlock from the larder- it was about to devour father and son’s favourite cheese they lovingly refer to as _The Stinky Orlesian_.

 

And the best thing is that there are so many more talents he can’t wait to discover.

 

### Notes:


	14. Of Trials and Horrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If only Alistair had known he'd have to get _naked_ to reach the Urn.
> 
> Based on [ this dorkalicious drawing](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/131723719500/illustratedacorns-starlordshepard-replied-to) by illustratedacorns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published 24 October 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!  
> Picture the scream[ like this (0:38)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrDKTvyvY24), except louder. And with an echo. Not-quite romanced but thoroughly awkward Alistair.

 

“You’ve got to hold still, young man, or we’ll never get you out of this.”

 

A groan preceded Alistair’s weak _Yes_ as Wynne continued trying to free him from the confines of his shirt he’d managed to get himself tangled up in.

 

_And to think the day had been going so well._ Neither a host of cultists, a rampaging Bronto nor the biting cold had been able to stop their progress through the Temple of Sacred Ashes and its system of cavernous tunnels. Riddles had been solved, rituals completed and they were but a final step away from retrieving the much sought-after Urn- the Prophet’s own ashes, the Arl’s cure and the hope they and all of Ferelden so badly needed.

 

Except that one final step towards the legendary goblet was to be made naked.

 

_Without clothes_.

 

By the entire party. Together.

 

Alistair, Elissa, Wynne, and…

 

He shuddered.

 

… _Morrigan_.

 

Alistair almost wanted to remain buried in his shirt, pretend not to be there. _And surely, if need be, couldn’t he help with the fighting?_ It was only a layer of linen, after all.

 

It had to be at that moment, of course, that Wynne pulled him free. Alistair stared at his arms and chest for a moment before realising his face must have turned the same shade of crimson.

 

He stuttered his thanks, forcing himself to focus on the mage’s face. Nowhere else. Not on the skinny folds that made up her now-exposed neck. Not on those spots on her shoulder or any other… _bits_.

 

Saggy _bits_.

 

Alistair swallowed almost painfully, turning sideways to avoid Wynne’s eyes.

 

_Mistake._ G r a v e _mistake._

A piercing, bloodcurdling shriek worthy of the most frightful banshee rang through the caverns, its echo shrill enough to rouse whatever might have been resting in their shadowy depths.

 

The party rose to attention, ready to defend themselves against whatever Alistair’s surprisingly powerful falsetto may have attracted.

 

When a tense moment had passed without any discernible movement, Morrigan scowled at Alistair, her glance as icy as he’d ever seen it. “Tis but natural, _fool_ ,” she huffed, a faint note of hurt in her voice as she turned on her heel, striding up the steps ahead of them.

 

Wynne gave him a sad look and a half-shake of her head before following suit. In an effort to spare the group another embarrassing auditory experience, Alistair rapidly averted his gaze once more as the rear view would undoubtedly reveal more _wrinkliness_.

 

He shed his trousers and boots, thankfully without any further complications.

 

Just as he was about to ascend towards the Urn, someone else walked into his field of vision. Someone he’d almost forgotten about over all this scary skin.

 

 

_Maker_ , she was breath-taking even now. Her supple complexion had maintained its rosy sheen and her eyes shone bright as the sun itself even in the face of all this darkness and decay.

 

And before his own eyes _or thoughts_ could wander anywhere else, Alistair gathered every single ounce of willpower from wherever willpower was stored in a desperate effort to look at Elissa’s face, and her face only.

 

Away from other things he most definitely did not want to see. Well, he did, _sort of._ He might even be so lucky one day. Right now, however, that didn’t even bear thinking of. Not in his state of undress which left so little to the imagination- _especially where bodily reactions were concerned_.

 

Her sprightly voice put a much-needed end to his musings. “Are you coming?”

 

“I, ah- yes,” he sighed. “I’m sorry for this display. Could you please forget all about it and pretend it never happened?”

 

To his surprise, a smile spread from one end of Elissa’s face to the other, and she cocked her head.

 

“That’d be a shame,” she purred. Alistair didn’t dare blink, or he may well have missed the way her eyes darted down his body and back up to his face within a split second.

 

“I quite enjoyed the show.”

And with that she was gone, leaving Alistair to catch flies in his wide-open mouth. Eventually he scurried after her, not without uttering a stream of hapless stammers.

 

The Urn was recovered, a mighty dragon slain, and the victorious party returned to the safety of their camp.

 

For the rest of the day, however, and much to Elissa’s amusement, Alistair avoided looking at her, lest more blushing would ensue.


	15. The Little Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Daddy!Cullen fluff bomb inspired by [ this wonderful piece of art](http://frank-a-lank.tumblr.com/post/131706213165/i-had-a-deep-urge-to-draw-cullen-with-his-baby) by frank-a-lank

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published 24 October 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!

Keeping a patient hand on a rounded stomach waiting for a kick, a punch, any sign that this is real.

 

Counting wriggly limbs, yet-closed eyes, even damp strands of hair whilst quietly sobbing.

 

Checking on the sleeping little body yet again just to be sure she’s all right (and still there).

 

Spending the entirety of a badly needed joint nap awake, incredulously watching that peaceful face, stealing a careful kiss now and then.

 

Stumbling over scattered toys in the half-dark on his umpteenth walk around house while the bundle in his arms gradually returns to sleep.

 

Being struck by just how time flies when holding up yet another vest that's suddenly too small.

 

Standing in front of a mirror making silly faces for hours just to keep hearing that bubbly laugh.

 

Examining ever-new, shiny white teeth- and finding out the hard way just how sharp they are.

 

Sharing for weeks and with anyone who'll hear it the story of that first tentative utterance of _dada_.

 

Telling the day's menu just from the bits he cleans out of his daughter's (and his own) curls.

 

Turning his right leg into a fearless battle horse embarking on many an adventure with its equally fearless rider.

 

Being woken in the wee hours by the firm grasp of tiny fingers on his nose, accompanied by the most angelic little chirp of _up!_

 

Singing and clapping all the way through dinner so the grateful mother can feed the enthralled spectator at least half her food.

 

Having no hope whatsoever of deciphering that mysterious string of non-words but nodding and _a-ha_ -ing anyway.

 

Trying his utmost to maintain a stern face at the grimly insistent repetition of the word _no_.

 

Happily sharing his secret stash of fine chocolate.

 

Watching fascinated eyes grow wide as he explains why Mama's belly is getting big again.

 

To Cullen, all of this means happiness.


	16. Prelude to a Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very short drabble inspired by this [stunning screenshot by Cantkeepmyeyesoff](http://cantkeepmyeyesoff.tumblr.com/post/131284488423/charming-my-warden-and-he-are-madly-in-love)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published 24 October 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!

The graceful movement of a sinewy neck, lifting a tired face of porcelain skin.

 

Thick lashes rise a fraction per second, revealing pools of hazel, ablaze with a need so intense the air between them flickers. Though his stare remains steady, there is a faint wet shimmer and one, two twitches of his brow.

A long, elegant nose twitches ever so slightly as he seeks out her still-familiar scent; the fragrance of months, years, a sheer eternity of longing, of memories struggling not to be forgotten.

 

Supple lips, a darker shade of rose, part with the gentlest  _plop_  as their gazes meet. Just the tip of a glistening tongue flicks out in a hint at his barely contained want.

 

His eyes dart down then back up her body in a split second’s appraisal, a claim fuelled by countless feverish dreams.

 

Then they’re on each other at last, neither of them sure who moved first. 

 

The tentative grasp of incredulous fingertips on aching bodies, the hot sob of a long-held breath precede that first touch of their starved mouths.

 

She tastes sweet and bitter, of relief, lingering agony and hope. Of long days and lonely nights filled with yearning.

 

She tastes of more. And of  _forever_.

 


	17. Cullen in Bed Headcanons (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons for Cullen and Trevelyan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published 24 October 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!  
> [Gorgeous NSFW art by Oblivionscribe](http://oblivionscribe.tumblr.com/post/131189712317/oblivionscribe-for-the-lovely)

Cullen had quietly been pining for the Inquisitor for months before they even kissed- casting timid glances her way, shamefully relieving himself in the loneliness of his loft. When making love he likes to take his time exploring her body with his hands, his mouth, even his nose; stroking, kissing and smelling his way across her skin, just to prove to himself that this isn’t a dream.

 

 

 

There are few things in life Cullen enjoys more than giving his love oral pleasure. He can barely go two days without tasting her, finds deep satisfaction in the noises she makes when she shudders and her thighs close around his head.

 

 

 

He likes having her on top, watching as she comes apart before flipping her over for a few final, hard thrusts, coming with a low grunt.

 

 

 

The notion of people thinking him timid or prudish in bed amuses him. His collection of kinks (that he loves adding to) is the Inquisitor’s and his best-kept secret: The silk ties. The sparkling wine from her belly button. Those sudden bursts of dirty talk that turn her on like little else. The touches under the table at formal occasions that leave her a bumbling mess in front of all these “important” people (even better if they’re Orlesian).

 

 

 

Cullen’s nightmares have improved since they started sharing quarters. Something about having her warmth radiate next to him gives him a sense of security so deep it keeps him calm in his sleep. He notices the difference when she’s out in the field.

 

 

 

Cullen enjoys being the little spoon more than he’d have thought. Having her arm wrapped around him, her hand resting at the top of his stomach, makes him feel wanted, appreciated in a way he hadn’t previously experienced.

 

 

 

On their wedding night he peels her out of her dress in absolute reverie, struggling to hold in the tears when she keeps on the necklace with his coin as they make love.

 


	18. Alistair in Bed Headcanons (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanons for Alistair and the Warden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published 24 October 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!

Before he and the Warden became a couple, Alistair would take care of himself up to three times on most nights, only gradually losing his shame at every tug. It wasn’t until they ended up making love just as often that he reconsidered those myths about Grey Warden stamina.

 

They like to get vocal and get a laugh out of sleep-drunken complaints hurled across the camp, grinning at each other the next morning over breakfast. Alistair in particular takes great pleasure in seeing Morrigan’s utterly disgusted expression.

 

Discovering his preferences, little kinks even , has been a rather exciting journey for Alistair. Whether it’s feeding her little bits of cheese and grapes or giving her a playful spanking that gets her more riled up than he’d thought at first. One thing he never expected was his own reaction to having his ears nibbled and caressed. It’s a staple of their lovemaking sessions now, and she loves all the little noises she can coax out of him that way.

 

Alistair loves the outdoors and has surprised his love more than once with spontaneous caboodles in a hidden cave, near a lake or at a quiet clearing. 

 

When pleasuring her with his mouth Alistair can get quite noisy, slurping and moaning along with her. Sometimes he has to stroke himself a little as he works away on her.

 

A specific kink Alistair soon develops is playing with his love’s breasts. He has names for them and engages in conversations, fondly “listening” to what each breast has to say. She finds it hard to get annoyed at his silliness when his eyes light up like a little boy’s. Sometimes he’ll just squish them together and rub his face between them.

 

He’s not likely to admit it, but Alistair is just a little proud of his shape. And gets quite turned on by her fascination when he flexes his bicep or she traces his abs.

 

It still fills him with complete awe to see her climax under his hands, his tongue, his body. And Alistair takes great pleasure in getting her there. Every time. 

 

Sometimes his voice breaks in a croak of her name as he comes. She cradles him to her breast then.

 

[Gorgeous NSFW art of Boobistair by Oblivionscribe](http://oblivionscribe.tumblr.com/post/131621642122/oblivionscribe-for-cullenstairshenanigans-for) ... [and of another favourite treat](http://oblivionscribe.tumblr.com/post/131444327737/oblivionscribe-his-favorite-treat-for)\- thank you so much!


	19. Her Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drabble based on the Trespasser trailer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published 30 August 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!

“We saved Ferelden, and they’re angry. We saved Orlais, and _they’re_ angry!”

 

Rage coils from deep in her stomach where it’s been lying hidden and repressed far too long. It spirals upwards, through her chest, into her face, hot and bitter. Rises along with her voice.

 

“We closed the breach twice. And my own hand wants to kill me!” She loosens her grip on nothing and glares at her palm; blasted, glowing thing that’s no longer a part of her.

 

The advisors’ reactions don’t help. Josephine’s clutching her writing board, smile frozen in place. Leliana remains expressionless, reading her as always, as she does everyone. Those are the only two she wants to look at. Because she needs to release more ire, spit out another load of bile.

 

A quick inhale, a clench of her fists, an irate slant of her eyes before her palm slams down on the war table.

 

“Could _one_ thing in this b l o o d y world just stay fixed!” There it is, shrill and vicious. Then she’s out of the room, spinning on her heel so fast she almost trips over her own feet. Her step is fierce, hostile poise daring anyone to get in her way.

 

The door to the main hall all but crashes open. Heads turn, curious whispers follow her path. She couldn’t care any less.

 

Another wooden thud and she’s stumbling up the stairs to her quarters, driven by a sudden eagerness to get out of this ridiculous outfit. Back into one of her old dresses she used to wear before she was the Herald, the Inquisitor, all these things she never wished for.

 

It’s the breezy flutter of the curtains that draws her onto the balcony. Pausing for the first time in what feels like days, she takes in the scenery. Mountains, ancient and majestic; the sky, astonishingly infinite; a gust of wind, harsh and clarity-inducing.

 

The humbling view has the same calming effect as always. Except today it turns fury into tears, a salty sting blurring her vision.  Snowy peaks lose their shape and stubborn teeth dig into her lip trying to stop its tremble.

 

Part of her wishes the sob she allows to escape would echo across the Frostbacks, tell the world of her unheard suffering.

 

It’s the gasp a moment later that rings louder, along with her startled utterance.

 

“Cullen?”

 

She’d neither heard nor sensed him approaching. Not up the stairs, not out to join her. For a man his size and build he’s always been remarkably agile, his movements almost feline in their grace.

 

Now the gentle, considered motion of his arms closing around her waist, his nose stroking her cheek bears an oddly comforting reminiscence to times when everything was cheers and victory.

 

She permits herself to lean back into him, into the hug, fingers closing over his wrists. They stand looking on, neither certain nor caring how long for.

 

His armoured torso is hard yet soft with his breaths, his kindness. Her own body weighs a little heavier with each passing minute, but he doesn’t budge as she sinks into him ounce by ounce.

 

Eventually his soft tug at her shoulder beckons her to turn, to face him. She does one but not the other, buries herself in his furs instead. The worn but not quite matted mass of hairs is fuzzy and warm on her skin, a stark opposite to the politics of the past few days.

 

His scent envelops her, strong and familiar even through the plate and clothes. Soothing, invigorating notes of leather, soap and _him_ caress new life into her senses. For some reason it’s the smell that entices her to look up at him at last.

 

Cullen’s voice is one of the most impressive she’s ever experienced. She’s seen people encouraged, intimidated and intrigued by its colourful, versatile tones; it has brought her laughter, comfort and desperate arousal many times over.

 

But he doesn’t even need to use it. Her tears are dried and forgotten the second her eyes meet his. Their understanding, faithful depths, of a colour somewhere between copper and melted caramel, invite her to drown in them, to let go.

 

And it’s from his snug embrace, within those endlessly loving eyes, that she finds strength.

 


	20. Treats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen helps the Inquisitor relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published 10 August 2015. Excluding gift fics, I'm re-posting my shorter drabbles as part of this collection rather than standalone pieces. All your lovely comments have been saved on my computer because they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding!

The moodyflickerof a sea of candles is the only source of light in the Inquisitor’s quarters. It’s quiet except for the growing fire’s crackle. Outside the sun has long set and the first stars are making a tentative appearance on the ebony night sky.

 

Cullen is sitting on the plush chaise longue reading without much concentration. Childlike anticipation is drawing a grin onto his face, and it widens when he hears footfalls from below.

 

He was finished before her for once, though by no means early. Knowing she was going to have a long day, he excused himself to sneak up here.

 

His grin widens and excitement flutters in his stomach as the door below clicks. The slow, heavy fall of steps betrays her fatigue. When it draws closer he puts the book aside and stands to meet her.

 

A head of stress-tousled hair appears, and heavy-lidded eyes widen in astonishment before her head rolls sideways and an awed smile softens her tired features. Now and then he’ll prepare this for her, but it’s seldom enough to still be a surprise.

 

Her eyes begin to shimmer, and her mouth opens. But Cullen has closed the distance between them, and an index finger on her lips shushes her. She presses a kiss onto its tip then squeals as he picks her up and brings her to sit down on the small sofa.

 

He’s put out her night clothes and helps her into them- though he can’t help but think the uniform she’s shedding resembles them a little too much.

 

When she’s done he gets on his knees and rolls the bottoms up beyond her calves. He pulls up a wide porcelain bowl and places her feet inside, one after the other. Her wince at the touch and the faint hint of sweat are a testament to how swollen and exhausted they are. When they sink into the steaming water she sighs, resting her head against the seat.

 

Sandalwood and orange blossom waft up from the bowl, and she hums at the pleasant smell. Cullen reaches over to the small side table and hands her a mug. He’s brewed her favourite tea, and the heady smell of herbs mixes in with the infused water’s aroma.

 

They sit in silence for a few minutes while her feet soak, and Cullen watches the play of light and shadow across her face as it relaxes, the frown diminishing.

 

Now and then he'll dip a finger inside the bowl. When he finds the water has cooled he grabs a towel, the softest he could find. Wrapping her feet in it, he gives them a gentle rub. She smiles, pats his hair before he bids her to lean back.

 

Cullen pulls up a small basket from beside him holding a set of small, dark bottles. He likes to try out different oils- it could be elderflower one time and a citrus concoction the next.

 

Tonight it’s roses.

 

A small moan pours from her lips when his slick palms close around her right foot. He smiles up at her and places a kiss onto her leg. Then he begins.

 

At first his thumbs dig into her sole, rubbing the soothing essence in deep just above the heel. She groans at the pressure, accepts it knowing its benefits. He works his way up the elegant arch of her foot, lips following thumbs, coaxing the dearest little sighs out of her.

 

When he’s arrived at her toes he tends to each of them individually. He massages up their stubby length, rolls them around, grins at the sound she makes when one of them crackles. Every toe gets a kiss before he moves on.

 

The top of her foot gets the same thorough, tender treatment, and he works his way upwards to finishes with little circles of his thumbs around her ankle. She groans. He chuckles and plants one last peck on her right foot.

 

By the time he’s finished with the left she’s purring, melted under his touch. Cullen rolls down her sleep pants. Rising from his kneeling position, he covers her in kisses and gentle tickles- her thighs, stomach, wrists, chest, neck.

 

When they’re face to face her half-open eyes are blazing. Ardour swells in his chest as his lips find her left cheek, her right, then the tip of her nose before they share a kiss- warm, lazy and affectionate.

 

As he lifts her sluggish form up this time he has to make sure she’s holding on to him before he carries her over to the bed.

 

He sets her down, pulls up the covers and crawls in beside her. Long tresses fan out on soft pillows, and it’s not long before her eyelids flutter shut. Propped up on an elbow, he soaks up the calming scents radiating from her, watches her drift off as the flicker dies down, leaving them under the veil of night.

 

Sometimes they end up making love after a massage, slow, deep and sweet- but not tonight.

 

It doesn’t bother him. Because he loves watching her fall asleep just as much.


	21. Insatiable (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little Boobistair moment for the fabulous [inqyy](<a%20href=)

Plates sit empty and abandoned, afters have been had. But Alistair’s feast begins now. He’s latched firmly onto your breast, suckling with so much greed you’d think him starved. All you can do is cradle his head to your chest, watch as he licks and grabs and gropes.

The little tremor weakening you in his embrace tells him you liked that little pull of his teeth. So he lets the flesh slide from his lips with a delightfully wet noise then blows on it, grinning when you shudder under him. He knows you.

Not that it took him long to learn. He’s mastered your body’s unique language, translating without effort what makes you moan, writhe, clutch; what gets you so wet he can _smell_ you.

Your other breast sits neglected save for an absentminded kneading of his hand, but he’s about to rectify that. Glancing up from where he’s cushioned into your bosom, he makes sure you’re watching before that wicked, clever tongue sneaks out again. A quick, hard flick, up and down, and your nipple bends with the motion, stiffening beyond what you’d thought possible.

The lust found in tasting a woman’s breasts has always been a masculine trait. The sounds that escape him, however, the hasty puffs of breath in between hungry suckles and those strained, needy _ah_ s, are nothing but Alistair. And it’s not just his mouth on you telling of his maddening desire. It’s the eager grip of never-resting hands. Those teasing circles draw by gracefully slender fingers. The hard wall of his own chest heaving against you. That promising, empowering nudge against your leg, long and hard and hot, as already he can’t keep himself from thrusting, fucking.

Alas he won’t spend forever on your bosom. You’re so easy and pliant under him now, he knows it’s time to move on soon. He’ll progress further south, chuckling when you arch into him. Your legs will entrap him, and he won’t stop licking at you until you _melt_ into his face, sweet and sticky.

But this, his own feast of you, he’ll never possibly get enough of.


	22. His Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Giveaway drabble for the ever-lovely [triaelf9](http://triaelf9.tumblr.com) featuring her cutie Celyse Lavellan and our favourite Commander in the Arbour Wilds. It’s based on [her own beautiful comic](http://triaelf9.tumblr.com/post/126174187784/played-the-arbor-wilds-again-the-other-day-and-i), which you should totally check out.

“ _For the Inquisition!_ ”

“ _With the Herald!_ ”

“ _Commander, watch out-_ “

The Behemoths’s roar drowns out steel and voices the same instant a sharp sting pierces Cullen’s flank, leaving a warm trickle in its wake. He assesses the wound within an eye’s blink and with the detached judgement of the seasoned soldier he is. It shouldn’t slow him down, and his annoyance at himself numbs the pain.

So he charges, his sword hissing through the air as three, four light-footed steps take him right to the enemy. The creature’s disfigured head comes flying off before it can react to Cullen’s swing, its foul blood darkening the murky water.

He doesn’t stop to watch its grotesque form collapse but presses on, momentary shock giving way to grim determination. His exhale is heavy with waning spirit. They’ve progressed this far, this close to Mythal’s temple, but each small victory along the way has taken its toll. Two days’ lack of sleep, of any rest, has left him wired, focussed but hollow.

From the corner of his eye he spots a familiar head of hair. Celyse and her companions have arrived and are scanning the battlefield with clinical concentration. Cullen’s first instinct is to look her up and down, checking for any injuries. When he’s satisfied she’s unharmed he addresses not his love but their leader.

“Inquisitor,” he calls, calm and assertive, “We’ll hold the line. You go on to the Temple.”

Her only reaction is to nod and keep walking towards him. The sloppy mess of noises fades and his eyes widen as she draws nearer, closer than she ever would outside their quarters.

Suddenly, _magically_ , Celyse is standing on her toes. Cullen’s breath stops for an instant, his heartbeat a raging staccato. And then, amid the battlefield, surrounded by death and destruction, she presses her lips to his. Her kiss is soft as ever, her dear scent lingering under leather and mud.

War and duty cease to exist for a blessed few seconds. In that sweet little moment, there is only him and her- _their_ Herald, _his_ love and light. Even now, even here, she _shines_. Her glow, her warmth envelop him, soothing his tired body, his exhausted soul like only she can.

It’s over too soon, but her dainty hands remain on his flushed cheeks as she whispers, “Stay safe.”

Another breath and she’s spun around, headed for whatever may await her at her destination.

Her show of affection has left Cullen happily startled, grinning to himself even as around him two dozen soldiers cheer and hoot their excitement at the refreshingly untypical gesture.

It’s with newfound vigour that he barks his next order. When his men stand to attention he sneaks a quick glance to where slim footprints describe Celyse’s path.

Gloved fingertips brush, _incredulously_ , over his lips, tingling from her kiss. He recalls her words- two simple syllables bearing all the comfort, all the hope he needed.

“You too, love,” he whispers, still smiling.

 


	23. After, Glowing (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on wonderfully sensual art by [alma-enigmatica](http://alma-enigmatica.tumblr.com/image/135681173138).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [enigmatic_soul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigmatic_Soul/pseuds/Enigmatic_Soul)featuring her gorgeous Delylah Trevelyan.

The smells of lust, exertion and fur blend into a bouquet of sated need and sweet intimacy. Sweat sits warm and sticky between their bodies, at his hairline. The trickle of their shared pleasure seeps from her.

She’s trapped between the hard floor and his boneless weight. Her breaths come short but she relishes his skin on hers; his chest hair’s coarse tickle; the way his torso squishes her breasts, moulding her shape to his.

Delylah’s head turns sideways, her mobility reduced by her hair being stuck under her shoulder- another comfortable entrapment.

The dull mirror leaning against the far wall outlines the heap they form, reflecting what she so cherishes about these moments: the bulky frame of his shoulders, a hint of the sheer power he ravished her with; how wide her legs are spread to fit him between them; the visible portion of his face, soft with complete relaxation and utter bliss. Even with his length spent and at rest, the image is a vivid reminder of the allure he still bears in half-sleep; the attraction that will never cease to draw her to him. The raw carnality of their pose couldn’t fit their surroundings any better- a crammed yet cosy old hut situated in the cold, harsh splendour that is Frostback Basin.

A sudden idea lifts the corners of her mouth into a small smile. Delylah flexes- a single pulse where they’re still joined, tightening muscles only he has ever felt her use.

Cullen startles with a pained groan. While he’s yet too exhausted to move, the crease of his brow against her shoulder tells her he’s grimacing from oversensitivity.

Another moment passes with only their heartbeats and the fire’s crackle breaking up the silence. Then Cullen shifts, begins to say something as he attempts to get up. But Delylah shakes her head, tightening her legs around him. He obliges, slumping back against her.

Unthreading her fingers from his, she reaches for where his hair sticks to his forehead, smooths a damp curl. Her foot trails up his leg, toes stroking his inner thigh, caressing the fluffy hair just below his bottom. Another groan, amusement lingering at its edges. His head lifts and questioning eyes squint at her.

She grins, flexing her inner muscles again. This time she’s rewarded with a twitch. Two more clenches draw a pleased hum from her when she feels him swell once more.

Unspoken affection and freshly roused desire radiate from the glance they share. Before Cullen can react Delylah has flipped their positions, pinning his arms down as her hips roll to accommodate his rekindled hardness inside her.

They don’t emerge from the hut until the morning.


	24. His Aphrodisiac (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A slightly tweaked Facebook prompt that turned into Yet Another Drabble ^__^

It’s the slow parting of her lips that catches his attention. The hint of voice in her exhale.

Her scent of lilies, soap and femininity rousing his instincts. That coy flush on her cheeks when she notices him staring.

Or the way she cranes her neck, daring him to sink his teeth into its graceful curve. Her jawline’s soft contours, waiting to be traced with butterfly pecks.

The slight bounce of her breasts as she’s walking, a playful invitation to his hands, lips and tongue. Her hips’ rhythmic sway, captivating, hypnotising.

How she leans over the war table, arching her back while his teeth grind with restraint. Oblivious chatter as she presents herself right under his eyes.

But what really unleashes his inner beast is _look_ she gives him as he advances towards her. Surprise, curiosity and budding lust to echo his own.

White teeth digging into her bottom lip as she stumbles backwards, sinking onto the bed, fully aware of how need thrums in his veins at the sight. A sweet little sigh when she spreads out for him.

Warm skin, finally under his fingertips; a mere touch sending a shock of lust through him. A pliant body pressing, rubbing against his.

Fabric giving way, each exposed inch of her making him harder, thicker, _lightheaded_. Kisses, greedy, hasty, feverish.

Slickness, soft and glistening; calling to every single cell of him. Moans, his and hers, their own wordless language.

Honey, musk and an almighty urge to smell, taste and savour; his entire being trembling with desire. Breathless awe when she clutches, shivers, cries out.

Tight heat gripping at him, finally destroying that last ounce of control. Motions, erratic yet harmonious; finding home and fulfilment in each other.

And once he has collapsed, weak and spent, his head comprehends what his body knew all along: All her traits, habits and mannerisms will never cease to entice, enrapture, enslave him.  

He’s forever hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original prompt was _Whoops! Cullen gets hit by an aphrodisiac_. I didn't like the implied non-con element so simply went with _aphrodisiac_.


	25. Power (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend needed cheering up, so I wrote butt stuff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Katja Trevelyan.

_At her mercy._ That he is.

Laid out before her, sinewy arms a wide-spread invitation; red silk both constricting and caressing his wrists.

A single trail of glistening sweat down his torso tells of play and preparation, of enjoying and anticipating. Nerves linger in his gaze of caramel, in the flick of his tongue over kiss-swollen lips. But trust radiates from his posture, his stark nudity, and from the smile they share.

The harness sits tight, a surprising comfort on her slim hips that are itching to move. Though the shaft is of glossy, lifeless wood, the tingle of sheer excitement stretches from her body right into its length,

She relishes its weight in her hand, how it fills her open fist as she coats it in warm oil. _Her own cock._ The notion widens her grin, and she makes sure he catches each languid tuck, every flick of her wrist. When done she raises a teasing eyebrow as her fingertips, calm and slick, crawl up her body to cup her breasts. One squeeze has him whimpering. On the second he pulls at his silken restraints, his brow pinching with longing. He’s used to touching, moulding, to dusky nipples under his palms. But tonight it’s her doing the touching, the moulding, the stretching.

And now she’s going to have him.

Katja moves in, blunt nails scraping along fuzzy thighs as she wraps them around her waist. Cullen’s chest, that wide canvas of scars and suffering and heroism, rises and falls in a rapid ebb and tide born from the same overpowering excitement that has her fingers shaking, her breath hitching. _His_ cock, thick and meaty, twitches when her apex brushes against his arse.

The room’s quiet is broken by their joint gasps as their shafts touch. She angles her hips, drawing the tip down his length, past his sac and perineum, to its destination.

He’s well-prepared, loose and ready. A tantalising few circles and minimal, devious pressure have him writhing, bucking. He _needs_ it. He needs _her_.

So she pushes forward. Breath escapes her as her hips close in and she sees, _feels_ herself breaching, penetrating, _being absorbed_. Cullen’s face contorts with agonising pleasure, with a delicious pain greater than what fingers, no matter how many, could ever incite.

Her progress is slow, his tightness delightfully restrictive. When her hairless mound comes to rest against his sack, already drawn up, she releases a sigh. For a moment she rests, inspects where she disappears into him. Brings an oily finger up to draw a curious half-circle around his rim. Does it again when he moans deep in his throat.

Then she withdraws, a languid and deliberate motion. Cullen _winces_. She smiles, again, her eyes searching his. A nod and a grunted half-word give the permission she seeks.

In a motion she’d always regarded as intrinsically masculine, Katja thrusts forward, sheathing herself anew in her man. His mewl, sweet and grateful, beckons her, and her buttocks clench as she drives in again, and once more. They fuck, _she_ fucks, for a staggering few moments; cock bobbing, breasts bouncing, skin slapping. Then she stops, buried inside him.

A gentle tilt of her hips draws a lewd curse from her lips as her clit, swollen and irate, rubs against him. She only realises her eyes were shut when they open at the _howl_ he lets loose. She hums, pleased at having found his most secret spot. Thrusting up a second, third and fourth time, she strums her own pleasure, draws his to exacerbating heights. He’s pliant, melted under her, desperate in his need.

Katja’s head spins with delirious lust, with the absolute control she holds over both of them. The next roll of her hips is accompanied by a pump of her fist on his pulsing shaft.

_This is going to be exquisite._


	26. Weakness (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Companion piece to _Power_ (previous chapter). More butt stuff. My friend is all cheered up now :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Katja Trevelyan

_She's in control, without any question._

Lean thighs are trembling, her flush a glowing pink even in the twilight. Her brow is pinched in concentration, her whole body strung tight as a bow. The same gracefully lithe frame that’s so often writhed under his is now towering over him, rendering him delightfully helpless. Unreadable eyes are glued to where she’s entering him right this tantalising moment.

Cullen’s fists clench around cool handfuls of silk, a shuddering breath leaving him just as slowly as she’s filling him. He’s heavy, loose, open; even without the restrains he’d be unable to move, pinned down by her approaching weight, by the hard wooden cock spearing him. It advances a fraction per heartbeat, fat and slick and unrelenting. They’ve played with fingers, even tongues, but never before has he been _owned_ like this. When her pelvis meets his, a sharp sting not _down there_ but in his bottom lip surprises him- _he’s bitten down hard enough to draw blood_.

He studies her studying them; follows the finger snaking between their; moans, wantonly, when she strokes, teases where she’s breached him.

The cock withdraws, _she_ does, leaving him cold and empty. A smile plays around her lips, the one he’ll always be proud of evoking. Her eyes find his, asking for permission, which he _thinks_ he gives but can’t quite tell just what he mumbles back at her. It must have been the right words, for she holds his gaze as she thrusts back in, and out, and in. Again Cullen whimpers, lustful and needy, at movements so familiar yet new. Katja is relishing her new perspective, its sheer power, looking utterly feminine despite the fact that she’s _fucking_ him.

When she stills this time he has to catch his breath. She moves again, a new angle. It takes him a second to recognise his voice in the strangled cry that draws a pleased little hum from her. _His sweet spot. She’s found it._ And she hits it again, and once more, every stroke a shock of devastating pleasure.

Climax is coiling deep in his belly, tightening his sack, ready to _destroy_ him. But there’s no release. It simply lingers, torturing him like her steady rhythm does.

A faint shiver trails down his length when the room’s chill flicks at the drops of desperate need pearling from the tip. As if on cue, warm fingers wrap around his shaft, _more pressure._ Not just on him, for he notices her grinding against him now with every thrust, chasing her own peak.

She falls forward, _still so deep inside him_ , her bosom pressing right into his face. Before he knows it, _instinctively_ , his mouth finds a plump nipple and he latches on. His cheeks hollow as suckles, the greedy tug of his lips pulling a moan from her. He nurses her with reverence, with incredulous gratitude for what she’s giving him.

They rock with, into each other, like they always have yet vastly different, their roles of giving and receiving exquisitely reversed.

Katja’s hips begin to stutter, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Then she roars, a rush of damp coating his balls as she comes, _and comes_ , the wooden cock poking at him with each of her spasms.

And it’s the fifth, perhaps sixth rub of the hard tip that does it. With a sudden, overwhelming force, Cullen’s glans contracts, _violently_ , and he clutches, cranes, keens. Orgasm is blinding, deafening, and he’s blissfully numb for a precious few breaths.

Then it’s peace.

Sated bodies sagging into each other, heavy breaths tickling sensitive skin. No words, just warmth. Embracing, snuggling, smiling.

The beginnings of an exhausted snore send a flutter of affection through Cullen’s chest before he, too, nods off.

They’ll do this again. Not soon, perhaps. But when they do, it will be just as unique.


	27. Masturbation Headcanons (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What the title says! Our boys do feature, though it's the Solas one I'm kinda happy with. ʘ‿ʘ  
> [Read on Tumblr](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/141912318205/masturbation-headcanons)

**Aveline** has never touched herself until Donnic shows her. Though initially reluctant, she is moved to tears, both by the wondrous sensations and by the love her husband demonstrates in teaching her to love herself.

 **Blackwall** doesn’t shy away from a healthy tug after a won battle. He thinks it only logical to celebrate survival with life-affirming carnality.

 **Alistair** sheds his Chantry-induced shame when he discovers being a Grey Warden doesn’t just increase his appetite for _food_. Laying a quiet hand on himself several times a night, he’s always grateful when relief sets in so he can stop doing _that_ before anyone notices.

 **Cassandra** doesn’t give in to primitive temptations of the flesh. Except that one time after reading that particularly titillating chapter of _Swords and Shields_. And after each re-read, too. But that’s just between us, yes?

To **Anders** touching himself is one of the few remaining pleasures life as a wanted apostate has left him with. He’ll make full use of his magic to draw out and intensify his peak, savouring the warm tingle that lulls him to sleep.

 **Isabella** views masturbation as a celebration of her body, her femininity and her independence. She’ll set aside time to explore herself over a glass of wine in cosy candlelight.

To **Fenris** masturbation is another bitter manifestation of loneliness. His motions are abrupt and purposeful, fuelled not by love for himself but sheer physical need.

Touching himself helps **Cullen** through the withdrawal pains, making it a soothing rather than enjoyable experience. He misses the days when it was a mere guilty pleasure- yet another reason why he is determined to overcome his addiction.

 **Bonus: Solas** has no need for masturbation. He attends Fade parties.   _Telamdys_ , those are c r a z y.


	28. Orlesian Cheese

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smellistair! ^__^

A mild breeze stroked the branches of the majestic trees lining the tranquil clearing. The fire’s crackles formed a gentle rhythm to the melody of quiet chatter over dinner’s final bites.

Alistair put aside his plate and leaned back. Stretching out his feet, he gave a satisfied smile at Elissa, who was still chewing beside him.

“What’s that smell?” Though Leliana’s voice rang sweet as honey, Alistair wondered how much spite lingered under the silken timbre.

Ignoring Morrigan’s snort, he offered, “I don’t smell anything.”

A faint unease tickled in his stomach as first Wynne then Zevran looked up, sharing a glance before turning back to their food.

He should have let it go, let them carry on. But being Alistair, he _had_ to ask. “What is it?”

The way everyone avoided his gaze did nothing to ease his nerves. Only the witch deemed it necessary to mutter into her potatoes, “Of course the fool doesn’t notice. One would assume he’d _do_ something about it otherwise.”

As ever, Alistair wished himself able to ignore her slants. Alas he wasn’t. “What _are_ you on about?”

To his surprise Wynne now cleared her throat. “Alistair,” her tone foreboded one of _those_ dreaded lectures. “We’ve talked about this before-“

He cringed, his shoulders sagging in resignation. “Please don’t tell me we’re going to discuss babies again?”

Sighing, the mage set down her cutlery, her look almost pitiful. “Not babies, Alistair. Your _socks_. And personal hygiene in general.”

Heads turned, chewing ceased and silence fell across the camp. A hot flush shot up Alistair’s cheeks, and breath left him from the verbal punch to the stomach.

“You mean to say…” Humiliation rendered his voice weak and his words slow.

“You _smell_ , dimwit.” Had he been convinced this couldn’t get any more humiliating, Morrigan’s hiss proved him wrong.

Shock and hurt pounded in his heart and temples. Part of him expected to wake up any second, though the round of stares directed at him indicated otherwise.

His wide eyes wandered from the sneering dwarf to the ever-impassionate Qunari and over to Zevran, who perhaps deemed himself helpful when he explained, “Your feet, their bouquet is rather reminiscent of those delectable Orlesian cheeses. Those sticky blue ones, yes?” He shrugged, grinning, “Except not quite as delectable, I’m afraid.”

Helpless, Alistair could only gawk, utter mortification robbing him of all speech. A sharp exhale to his left had him wishing for a hole in the ground, or to run away- only he was frozen to the spot.

“If I could weigh in here,” Alistair’s eyes squeezed shut as he braced himself for more scorn- and the inevitable end to his budding relationship. Because roses, kisses and hand-holding aside, no woman would possibly want a man whose feet bore the odour of expensive dairy produce. Especially not Elissa- classy, educated and altogether dazzling as she was. Bitter regret coiled in his tummy, and he ground his teeth wishing he hadn’t skipped laundry day.

Elissa ignored his fidgeting. “I can assure you I haven’t noticed anything.” His jaw dropped in disbelief. “And I _do_ get to be a little closer to Alistair, wouldn’t you agree?”

The coy question evoked appropriate reactions- awkward shuffling, downcast looks and an eye-roll from Morrigan. Alistair gawked, open-mouthed, when Elissa continued. “Are you sure it isn’t one of you?”

A dramatic sigh preceded Morrigan’s disgusted comeback. “Your _sweetheart_ stinks.”

Sharp inhales and a cool gust of wind amplified the sudden tension as Elissa rose to her feet. Wary of her temper, Alistair scrambled to stand himself, distracting her from the witch’s stare. “You don’t think I smell?”

Clearly intent on making a point, Elissa stepped closer. “I wouldn’t have you any other way.” Alistair decided to focus on her smile rather than the ambiguous compliment.

His fellow Warden snuck a challenging glance at the party before she addressed him. “If it makes you feel better- how about we go wash our clothes?” She cocked a brow, her voice dropping to sultry depths. “While we’re there we could always take a _dip_ ourselves…”

A new wave of embarrassment crept up Alistair’s face, dying him the shade of a ripe tomato. A pathetic whimper conveyed all his shock, confusion- and a sneaky curiosity.

Elissa’s bold invitation prompted a hasty exodus. Dishes clanked and armour rustled as everyone hurried to leave the young lovers to themselves- Oghren stumbling, Zevran chuckling and Morrigan with a predictable snarl.

Once alone, Elissa huffed. “Well, I got them off our backs at least.”

Relief washed over Alistair, and he ignored the sting of disappointment. “Oh,” he stammered, scratching the back of his head, “so we’re not actually going to-“

Mischief returned to her face along with a wide smile. “When did I say we wouldn’t?” And in that moment Alistair found in her eyes the same longing, the same affection that ruled his every thought, every word and dream of her.  Barely finished speaking, Elissa spun around, giggling as she ran for the nearby lake.

Alistair looked on for a mere second before he followed, forever captivated by that smile.


	29. Hiccups (TW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A "drunk kiss" drabble for Anon_Omis featuring Nika Trevelyan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for alcohol.

“…but have you heard the one with the nug and the Chantry brother?”

“I have. Three times tonight alone,” Cullen asserts, folding his trousers and adding them to the neat pile on the plush chair.

He can’t help a grin at the sight of Nika sprawled out on the bed, half-dressed, heavy lids threatening to fall shut. She fights her ale-induced fatigue, though, crooking a finger in what he can only guess is meant to be a seductive display.

“Why don’t you join me?” she purrs, followed by a chirpy little _hic_. Her voice stumbles less than her feet did on the way back from the Herald’s Rest, but the slur betrays her intoxication. Cullen shakes his head, his smile patient.

“I’m not going to take advantage of you in your state.” The mattress’ bouncy softness still surprises him, even months after trading the loft for the Inquisitor’s quarters. Once the light covers are up to his chest, he allows his limbs to relax, the alertness to slip from his body.  

But he’s not granted rest yet, for beside him Nika is now pouting. “What do you mean, _in my_ -hic- _state_?”

Cullen sighs, turning sideways to face her. “Wouldn’t you agree you might be a little tipsy?”

“But I only had _-hic-_ a couple tankards!” The pout deepens, her bottom lip curling.

“And on an empty stomach even those take their toll.” Nika frowns, and Cullen _hears_ her mind working, if at a reduced pace. Yet he’s caught by surprise when her lips all but crash into his.

Her kiss is sloppy, noisy, but under the ale’s metallic sharpness her taste lingers – cleanliness, mint and _Nika_.

When they break their foreheads rest against each other for a sweet moment, _they always do_. Then he leans over to extinguish the oil lamp. Light and shade blend into vague contours, soothing his tired eyes.

As soon as he turns back Nika moves in, but Cullen grasps her face in his hands, placing a tender yet assertive kiss on her forehead. “Good night, my love.”

Ignoring her huff, he lets go, closing his eyes and listening to the slowing cadence of his own breath.

A hushed giggle rouses him from semi-consciousness. “What is it?”

“You know,” Nika mumbles, and before he knows it her head is resting on his bare chest- warm, comfortable weight. “We’re lying here like an old married couple.”

“Do you think so?” Cullen chuckles weakly, indulging her in the hopes of a swift end to this conversation and a well-deserved night’s rest for both.

When there’s no response he hums, ready to slip into the Fade. But then Nika’s question shocks him into reluctant attention.

“Would you ever want to get married?”

The ensuing silence is broken by another giggle, self-conscious now. Cullen contemplates- not on the answer, _Maker no_ , but on whether to discuss this in her state. A shuddering exhale precedes his cautious answer.

“I’d lie if I said I hadn’t considered it.” As always, he doesn’t realise he’s reached out to stroke her hair until the silken tresses run between his fingers. “More than I should admit.” The simple sentence evokes _that_ moment on the battlements, timid joy fluttering in his stomach as if it were yesterday. He’s no longer humouring her, the darkness and her skin on his easing the words out of him.

“I’d want to meet your family and properly ask for your hand.” He takes Nika’s silence as permission to go on. “The ceremony should be in Ostwick, and we’d spend the week leading up to it separated as is tradition.” His voice drops a shy tone or two as he continues, still caressing her hair, _that softest head of hair._ “I’ve tried picturing the kind of dress you might wear,” a flush warms his cheeks, “but whatever your choice, you’ll look just stunning.” The thought of Nika walking up to the altar speeds up his heartbeat. More words are waiting to pour out, but Cullen stops himself, waiting for her response.

None comes. “Nika?”

A content snore is all the answer he gets. Cullen smiles, his lips brushing over her forehead as affection blooms in his chest.

“Rest well,” he whispers.


	30. Charcoal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this post](http://cullenstairshenanigans.tumblr.com/post/143548714683/smalllady-alistair-theirin-enfp-the), which hints at Alistair's creative side.

“Just what _is_ he doing there with that piece of coal?”

Though she ignores Morrigan’s muttered words, Elissa is wondering the same. Wilted leaves rustle under her feet on her way towards the mossy tree trunk  he’s sitting on, has been for the last half hour. The mere sight of him has her shivering- cowering there in the onset of the Harvestmere evening, breath wafting before him in flimsy clouds.

But Alistair doesn’t mind. Eyes thinned into slits and tongue running along the corner of his mouth, he’s completely engrossed in whatever he might be doing, running the shrinking lump of black along the yellowed parchment in short, rapid strokes.

Even as Elissa draws closer, he hardly acknowledges her- his gaze lifts, his chin follows, several times over, but he’s looking through rather than at her.  _Studying her,_ almost.

“At least the fool isn’t singing,” the witch muses, “or _talking_.” 

Elissa is no longer listening, curious gaze searching for Alistair’s. A shy breath precedes her cautious question.

“What are you doing?”

Alistair flinches, no, _jumps_ , mortification writ across his face, his poise. A blush, intense even for him, creeps up his cheeks. 

“I-I,” he swallows, haplessly. “I’m just, ah-”

And then all he, _they,_ can do is stare in shock when a gust of wind pries the page from his wildly gesticulating hands. Elissa’s mouth drops open as it floats, _dances_ through the air, _towards her_ , and before she knows her hands sneak out to grasp it.

“No!” Alistair shoots up, desperate, but it’s too late.  _She’s already looking at it._

Elissa’s head spins, her heart pounds and her bottom lip quivers as a shaky fingertip traces an incredulous line over the drawing, _the portrait_.

She speaks, but no sound comes out. Alistair is scratching the back of his head, bumbling once more. 

“It’s crude,” nervous eyes dart back and forth, seeking hers, “amateurish… it does no justice to-”

But she cuts him off as she finds her voice at last as her vision blurs from the tears, _happy tears_. “It’s beautiful.”

Confusion clouds Alistair’s expression for a second. It fades into a smile- warm, wide and a just little proud.

“Well,” his eyes find hers at last, “It _is_ you.”


	31. Oblivious (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair washes. Elissa ogles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted 22 November 2015. I'm deleting all my shorter drabbles and re-posting them as part of this collection so you may have already seen this. All your lovely comments have been saved to my computer as they mean a lot to me. Thanks for understanding! (^^)

Sinews. Thick cords of muscle, branching out from a powerful neck to shoulders as wide as a doorframe.

 

A bicep of steel, its bulky shape shifting, jumping as he scrubs his back with the wooden brush. Damp red hair sticking to his armpit. Pale suds describing a slow trail down his torso, inviting her eyes to follow.

 

His absentminded intonation of that silly children’s song about griffins rings endearing, the starkest contrast to the raw sexuality he exudes, standing knee-deep in the water.

 

The sprinkling of freckles gives way to fine threads of strawberry blonde thickening below the elbow.

 

Large hands, rough palms, wide yet deft fingers roam across the immaculate sculpt of his body, cleaning himself of the night’s sweat they’d worked up together.

 

Water drops pearling down collarbones, sparkling in the morning sun as they split over a puckered nipple. Running through the deep ridges of his abdominal muscles, gathering in the fuzzy trail of hair below his round belly button.

Elissa chews on her lower lip, almost falling over her trousers that she’s trying to get into whilst gawking at her man from the shore.

 

She swallows as her eyes wander further down to where he’s just made a half-turn, presenting his backside in all its slapable, biteable glory. Two taut ovals, light porcelain skin. All relaxed muscle that flexes into rock-hard rounds at his will.

 

As if on cue he turns back, and she scrambles to get the shirt over her head, eager not to miss the next revelation. Elissa’s knees weaken and she fails to bite back a groan.

 

Soft as his precious heart, his cock hangs weighty, meaty despite the water. Nestled above his large sac against a thatch of red frizz, it calls for her in the sweetest, most tempting invitation.

 

He’s an epitome of masculinity. Strength, muscle, grace. Enough to get her moist again where she dried off not five minutes ago.

 

And she has seen his carnal, salacious side. Felt it, embraced it. Moulded herself to him. Wrapped her legs around his slim hips. Smacked those buttocks, felt them flex as he pumped into her. Writhed on that mighty cock.

 

At this moment Elissa wants nothing more than to shed the clothes she’s just put on, run into the water and straddle him. Catch his sensitive earlobe between her teeth. Draw those little falsetto moans from him. Rouse his tasty prick until it sits thick and heavy in her hand. Watch that pouty bottom lip quiver as she milks creamy spend from him.

 

“You all right, Lis?”

 

Utterly caught, she blinks as a flush creeps up her cheeks.

 

Alistair is wrapped in a towel, tiny droplets of water still adorning his ginger hair, his shoulders and chest. His poise, his smile, the sparkle in his eyes all bear the cheerful innocence of a young boy.

 

Elissa manages a nod then composes herself. Stepping into her boots, she presses a kiss onto the tip of his elegant nose. “I’m going to put on my armour and get ready. See you in a few.”

 

Though she spins on her heel, she catches his dumbfounded frown. “Lis? Are you sure you’re-“

 

Waving behind herself, Elissa picks up pace, jogging towards the camp. She shakes her head, chuckling.

 

_He really has no clue._

 

 


	32. Scissors and Thunder Mugs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though she meant well, Wynne wasn't quite the stylist she thought herself to be.

“Again? _Really?_ ”

“Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately, young man? If it gets any longer you’ll have to braid it.”

Alistair sighed. “Look, Wynne, it’s not that I don’t appreciate you cutting my hair.” His gaze dropped as he struggled for the right words. “It’s just that-,”a vague gesture was all he managed before the assassin cut in.

“What our Grey Warden friend means to say,” Zevran’s grin widened a fraction- not that Alistair had thought it possible. “…is that your kind attentions tend make his hair look like it was cut around an Antivan chamber pot.”

Alistair’s ears turned a flaming red the second Wynne’s hands angled at her hips. “Like it was cut around _what?”_ Mild irritation raised her voice to an incredulous pitch, more so since Leliana launched into one of her giggle-fits, much to Zevran’s satisfaction.

“Please, Wynne,” Alistair started, clenching his teeth when from behind a smug voice stoked his beginning headache.

“Tis fitting, you know. He’ll look _and_ sound equally intelligible.”

Alistair had gotten better at retorting Morrigan’s snarls (with some amount of wit, even). He didn’t get to respond, however.

“If you like I could give it a try?” Standing before him all petite and friendly and smiling, Elissa held out a pair of rusty scissors.

“Twould be a shame. I find the chamber-pot look rather appropriate.”

Annoyance got the better of Alistair. “Oh, will you shut it already, Morrigan,” he barked, only to turn an all-new shade of crimson. “I’m sorry,” he stammered at his fellow Warden, “that was uncalled for.”

Still smiling in that ethereally patient manner of hers, Elissa shook her head. “Not at all. If you like, we could sit over there?” She pointed towards a makeshift seat of boxes and garments.

“S-sure,” as always, her mere presence had him reduced to a bumbling mess. Worse, her happy, bouncy steps ( _not_ those swaying hips in the least) had him so enthralled he missed the abandoned Mabari toy blocking his path. It was all he could do to catch himself from falling, albeit the effort coaxed a frightening, ram-like sound from him.

Ignoring the heat shooting up his cheeks along with the cackles behind him, Alistair sat down, submitting to Elissa’s efforts.

The next ten minutes passed in a blur of sweet impressions- the scissor’s cool glide contrasting with Elissa’s warm hands; her idle chit-chat; her body, scent, her _presence_ so acute behind him. Through all the humming and _a-ha_ -ing, through his desperate attempts not to fidget he never noticed his own hair coming off in flimsy bundles until Elissa disappeared.

When she returned a blunt mirror appeared before him. Alistair watched his eyes widen as he turned from side to side, inspecting Elissa’s handiwork. A few incredulous seconds passed before he shook his head.

“It’s perfect,” he sighed, “where did you learn to-“

“I used to cut Fergus’ hair all the time.” Her proud smile faded into a brief frown before she brushed aside the memory, producing a familiar-looking tin.

Alistair took in a sharp, uneasy breath. “How did you know I use that stuff?”

His heart did a little jump when Elissa’s nose crinkled as she giggled to herself. “See …” opening the tin, she dipped her fingertips into the clear paste and went to work on the tuft of ginger above his forehead. “…I know you style that quiff just enough to make it look like you don’t.”

Another look in the mirror and a pat on his shoulder. “There you go,” she grinned then bit her lip as if contemplating. “I’d love to do this again if you’ll let me.”

Alistair’s voice dropped to a bashful half-whisper. “So would I.” Then his eyes widened when, _suddenly_ , she was standing on her toes and those softest of lips grazed his nose, which flared up with an all-new flush along with his face, his _being_.

“See you later, Alistair,” she purred, sauntering off.

“Yes. Later,” he croaked, looking on as he touched his nose

He stood by himself for another while waiting for the blush to fade. Except it didn’t for the rest of the day.


	33. Reflections of a Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Dad!Alistair drabble based on kay-jo-mackie's gorgeous comic on Tumblr, which I'll link shortly ^__^  
> Happy Fathers' Day!

The midday sun strokes his back, bathing the room in a cone of white warmth. Complete silence is broken only by his own breath and that of the sleeping bundle in his arms, barely the weight of a medium-size cheese wheel.

 

Alistair sighs, smiling as he takes in all those tiny features for the umpteenth time- the nose, absolutely his no matter what she might say; a mouth that’s curved into the most blissful little smile; eyes that lie closed, adorned by the longest, thickest lashes.

 

He’s still getting used to having these moments- just him and the baby, quiet cuddles and stolen kisses while Mama rests.

                                                                                                                        

Then it strikes him, and he chuckles to himself. He voices his thoughts, sharing them as has become his habit.

 

“You know,” a quick peck on a shockingly soft cheek before he continues, “I never thought I’d be a father.” It’s true. Between the Taint, duty and everything fate, the Maker and Thedas had thrown at them, fatherhood was the last thing he’d dared to hope for. What he’s holding now came as the most blessed surprise, the truest testament to their love. “Yet here you are, asleep in my arms.” Giddy incredulity has him whispering, carefully pronouncing every hushed syllable. The longer he stares at this child, at these eight dainty pounds of utter perfection, the more does he expect to be ripped from the Fade’s grasp any minute.

 

Alistair considers pinching his arm to be sure this is indeed real, not some lonely dream he’ll cruelly wake from. He doesn’t have to, because that very instant a teeny, sleeping hand scrapes at his wrist, leaving the sharpest, sweetest pain from those razor-sharp nails.

 

A glance at the red mark then back at the angelic face before him, and a sudden burst of emotion constricts in his chest, rising hot into his throat, his face. On its own accord Alistair’s palm begins rubbing circles into the plump belly he could tickle and caress for hours.

 

He allows his chin to graze that softest, fluffiest tuft of ginger hair, his shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

 

When he recovers his voice it’s thick with awe, with an affection stronger than anything he’s ever felt in his life.

 

“I love you with all my heart.”


	34. Naughty Nonny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Got this anonymous prompt on Tumblr:  
> "Sex with Alistair is like wrestling a huge mabari: at some point you find yourself being tackled, crushed under 250 lbs of raw force and his tongue is everywhere."  
> Couldn't just let that one go, could I?

Caught. Pinned. Deliciously trapped under this hot, sweaty wall of a man.

He’s above you, _on top of you_ , his entire body in feverish motion. His hands, lips, abs, even his _toes_ never stop seeking your skin, your touch. Those taut buttocks, they flex into rock-hard rounds then relax back into supple ovals as he grinds and rocks to the rhythm of grunts, sighs and rustles.

His movements don’t quite bear his swordplay finesse, but it’s precisely this rough, animalistic rutting that has you so lost, shamelessly rubbing yourself against him. Since his arse never stills you can’t slap it right, so you try again. And once more. The second swat of your hand evokes an absent _mmh_ , but it’s the final, harder smack, that burns under your hand and has him _growling_. Teeth sink into the crook of your shoulder, that wicked tongue swirls around a stiff peak, and suddenly he’s _even closer_ , bulk and musk and ginger fluff.

You catch the tip of an ear between your teeth, and against your damp slit pulses his meaty cock. The two of you are a slippery mess; neither sure where one ends and the other begins as you keep groping, licking and sucking at each other.

And then his hips roll forward and he’s _inside you_ ; just slips in in a single smooth glide. The abrupt fullness, his rigid heat rising draws his name from you, throaty and wanton. He chuckles then, wiry frizz tickling your apex as he starts moving.

His sac, tight with need, slaps against you, wetter and quicker with every breathless thrust. You’re clinging to him now, red scratch marks contrasting with the scars on his back.

Alistair’s poise, his tense shoulders, pleasure-pinched brow and the silent _o_ of his lips speak of sweet abandon, of drowning in lust.For a distant instant you wonder whether he’s even conscious of your presence.

But when your eyes open to steal a glimpse, Alistair’s very soul with all its tireless dedication, all his love, stares right back at you in gold-flecked depths of amber.

You know then.


	35. A Game of Wits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stregatadallostregatto prompted:  
>  can we speak about Cullen? Sex with him is like a chess game: he studies you, mapping your body as he plans his game and you tries to copy him, but you Know you'll loose. And this is Perfect, with him.

He knows. Oh, he does.

He knows your skin, your curves, your reactions. How you’ll gasp at a quick flick of his tongue and groan when clever fingers mould pliant flesh. He’s mapped you, learned you. The man is an expert at drawing a yelp from you, making you shudder, throb; leaving you warm and wet and wanting.

It’s with his unique smugness that he exerts his power. His scar jumps as that lopsided grin forms, infuriating and irresistible, leaving no doubt who’s in charge here. Sharp teeth rake past your ribs; parted lips trace the curve of your breast. But then only breath grazes your nipple as he faces you once more, delighting in your whine, in how you shove your chest at him.

You try to break his dominance, gain back an ounce of control. And he humours you. He’ll groan when you bite earlobe, rock into your palm as you cup that appetising bulge; smile when you smack one of his Fereldan sweet rolls. And then, when you think you’ve got him, he’ll move with a predator’s graceful precision. Suddenly your arms are pinned above your head, wrists squeezed into a wide palm, and he grinds.

Stiff, desperate nipples perk a little more when grazed by the wall of muscle that’s his chest, and you howl as his cock, alas yet clothed, moulds against your dampness. A sharp jut of his hips, and another, and a croaked yes betrays his own greed.

You rut back into him, soaking the cotton separating you. Weren’t it for that blighted layer, he’d be inside you now, fucking you proper, and you moan please, Cullen, reaching for him with your arms, legs, mouth.

And then he stops.

A sob escapes you, pure frustration. You avoid his gaze, but he tilts your chin. The grin is back, as is his tongue. A languid swipe across your bottom lip evokes a needy twitch between your legs.

He’s got you- and he knows.

“Checkmate,” he whispers


	36. Dragon Age Dads at Bedtime

**Dragon Age Dads at Bedtime**

For **Alistair** it’s just one more story, then another, and a little game too. He knows he’s being played but he can’t resist, no matter how often his wife scolds him for it. His children’s wide eyes, the smiles brightening up their faces are too precious to pass up.

Since becoming a father, **Anders** has upped his storytelling skills so much Varric would be jealous. Every night he fascinates with tales of the runaway mage who finds ever-more adventurous ways of escaping the Templars. Though he’d expected the question eventually, the one night it does come he’s hit by surprise, and moved to tears. “Papa, are you that mage?”

**Fenris** takes great pride in reading and will insist on bringing the children to bed regardless of how long his day has been. He’ll read until they fall asleep then read some more for himself.

**Blackwall** will bring his children to the window to point at trees, fields and rabbit holes. He then explains how animals go to sleep and never tires of answering their eager questions.

**Cullen** sings to his children- only to them and only at bedtime (and their birthdays if he can be talked into it). Sometimes he’s not sure who enjoys it the most- him, them or their mother, who sneaks up to listen every night thinking he doesn’t notice.


	37. Silverfox Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by recent [photos of Cullen's voice actor Jonny Rees](http://captainceranna.tumblr.com/post/140185583852/for-eravalefantasy-who-was-a-lucky-winner-of) as well as [some lovely art by Captainceranna](http://www.whosay.com/gregellis)

The candle’s flicker strains her eyes, more than the reading already does. She sighs, looking at the stair-top where a weary Cullen has just emerged.

“What a day,” he greets her, discarding his jacket on his way towards the bed. She takes off the glasses, allowing herself a glance while he undresses.

“I swear by the Maker,” he grumbles, “if the children let that Mabari into the larder again-“

“…you’ll do what, exactly?” She cocks an eyebrow, grinning, when he spins around. As a hand finds the back of his neck in a gesture he’ll never outgrow, her eyes wander.

The shirt which she knows he got a size larger hangs open, rough linen framing what’s still an exquisite torso. Neither abs nor tan are as pronounced as they were, and that softest thatch of chest hair may have gotten flecks of silver mixed in with the gold-

“Anything interesting there, dear?” Her heads shoots up the same instant her mouth drops open. He’s caught her staring, and she _blushes_. Turns a hot red like she always has, as if they weren’t a decade older.

“Possibly,” she manages at last, excitement tingling in her stomach as he pulls back the covers and joins her.

They kiss, like they have so often. Yet every touch of his lips reveals a fresh nuance to his flavour- tonight it’s delicate hints of mint and spice. Though his caress never lost its tender finesse, his lips are that little bit rougher, scraping along with his stubble that’s now got those white dusting.

When they break apart they hold on to each other, fingers tracing familiar skin with never-ending curiosity. Again she gets distracted.

Cullen’s face may be wider, the skin around his eyes crinkled with fine lines, but he’s lost none of his appeal. In one of those inexplicable reactions he seems to evoke, she reaches out. Her hand settles atop his hair, no less full than when they met; brushes down wavy lengths of ashen blonde, past that single argent strand, the one she loves wrapping around her finger; cups his cheek, and she hums when he breathes a kiss into her palm.

“What is it?” His tone betrays mild confusion.

She chuckles to herself, gaze dropping before it meets his once more. “You’re a handsome man, Cullen Rutherford.”

“Am I now?” Before she can roll her eyes at his smirk he’s got her lying back into the pillows, his weight settling over her.

They share another indulgent kiss before Cullen demonstrates that he has, in fact, retained _other_ fine qualities, too.


	38. I got bored and wrote Cullenlingus (NSFW)

The cool silk hugging her wrists almost helps her forget their tight constriction. Her body is confined to its helpless position on her back, sunk into fragrant sheets.

At his mercy, entirely. And Maker, does he know.

He pokes her clitoris, sly tongue tracing its stiff outline, making her feel, no, _experience_ each inch of needy skin, every ounce of blood pulsing through the fat little nub. Up he swipes, humming just enough for her to groan, then licks at the tip, peeking out from its hood.

White knuckles clutch the headboard and desperate hips buck up, because it’s _not enough_. But he chuckles, wide palms keeping her in place.

One, two thick fingers part plump lips, sink inside with slippery ease. He fills her, stretches her, and the broken _ah_ from deep down tells him he’s found the spot.

She sings for him, her whole body does. Slick, obscene noises accompany breathless moans as he pumps and fucks. His face is buried so deep in her crotch, the smooth length of his scar keeps brushing against her bald skin.

When she dares to look the mere sight nearly has her coming undone. Eyes closed, brow pinched, he’s utterly absorbed in his feast. Swollen lips fasten, stubbly cheeks hollow and he _sucks_ , drawing her tiny shaft in to meet his tongue. But it’s when he moans that she’s done for.

Thighs tremble, hips rise and pleasure trickles from her in warm, sticky waves. Bliss tingles through her, gripping her body, her being as she trashes and groans what may be a rendition of his name.

And Cullen laps, drinks, slurping up every musky drop of her lust. Her body has stilled but he’s there yet, full bottom lip drawing a lazy trail up her seam. She whimpers, squirms, his touch now _too much_.

He looks at her then, full lashes framing lust-darkened eyes. A damp lock has fallen into his forehead, and heavy breaths tease along her yet-twitching centre.

His voice and stare reflect that deepest devotion, the predatory pride only she ever gets to see.

“I’m not done with you.”


	40. Dirty Fighting (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyla and Cullen spar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely [Nylalavellan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NylaLavellan/pseuds/NylaLavellan), whose work you should totally check out!

“You requested an urgent meeting, Commander?”

The courtyard is deserted save for the one-eyed trinket hawker busy packing up, stuffing jewellery and ornate cups into a battered crate. Nyla is shivering. The sun has descended out of view, the cool Kingsway breeze tickling goose bumps onto her skin.

“Yes,” Cullen presses through gritted teeth, “urgent.” His jaw sits clenched and tension spans his shoulders. A sympathetic note weaves itself into Nyla’s formal tone.

“Long day?”

“Very,” he spits, sighing as he rubs his temple. “Those recruits are going to kill me.” His gaze softens and his voice drops to a gentler timbre. “Would you care for a round of sparring?”

She takes in Cullen’s form, caressed by a few stray rays of sunlight peeking in from between houses and hills. The golden hue on sallow skin dares her eyes to trail between the open top buttons of his shirt, over the tufts of hair she so loves to-

Clearing her throat, Nyla forces herself to look up. “I’d certainly care.”

He’s picked up on her gawking naturally. “After you,” he offers, gesturing at the sparring ring.

The equipment is all laid-out as expected. Though worn, the wooden daggers fit well into her palms. Nyla takes position while Cullen picks up his practice shield and sword.

Nyla’s knees bend with her next exhale, her shoulders sag and dagger-wielding hands rise above her waist. Her toes wriggle inside her loafers and her hips begin to sway as her body tingles with anticipation’s warm current.

About ten feet away Cullen, too, is assuming position, his motions a tad slower with restrained strength. “Ready?” he croaks. Lyla nods. It begins.

Cautious steps bring them closer, fuelled by mindful breaths. Their eyes never rest, scanning the other head to toe, waiting for a twitch, a change, _anything_.

Alert gazes meet, and Cullen makes the first move. The shield stays up, the sword hisses through the air, missing Nyla who _flies_ backwards at the last second.

He’s quick to catch himself, grinning from behind his shield, weapon still up. Nyla cranes her neck with a satisfying crack, cocking an eyebrow as she charges forward. Daggers at the ready, she dashes in, aiming for that small gap tempting her above her opponent’s right hip.

But she should have recognised the lure, for Cullen retreats a single smug step, leaving her reeling, swaying with the force of her misguided attack. And he launches straight into the counter, pushing forward, shield first. He’d have knocked her back had she not shifted onto her left foot and rolled out of his way.

Nyla’s muscles ache as she scrambles to stand, and there he goes again, charging at her with a low grunt only she’ll ever recognise.

_It’s the same sound he makes when her lips are firmly wrapped around him._

She parries his strike, crosses her arms and blades to push him backwards, the sudden burst of energy startling them both. Cullen’s split-second stillness grants her a peek down where the linen parts, revealing a pink hint of flat male nipple.

Of course the sneaky glance doesn’t go unnoticed by Cullen, who’s perking up. He comes slamming into her and wood bangs once, twice, a third time. Chests begin heaving, cheeks flush from strain. They know one another too well not to predict the other’s next move.

But Nyla is determined to get the upper hand. For an instant she allows her tongue to flick out, brushing a languid, glistening trail across her bottom lip. Cullen’s eyes dart to her mouth immediately, and he catches her little smile at his sharp inhale.

She’s got him. Now she just needs to wait for his attack.

And sure enough there it comes.

Gravel crunches under his boots, dust wallows up from each frantic step, rising into a cloud  when he slides past her as she evades him again.

But somewhere within the motion, along the edge of Nyla’s exhale, something grazes her in a feather-light touch that buzzes through her very core.

His tongue.

_He licked the tip of her ear in passing._

A throb pulses heavy and urgent at her apex and a throaty little ah escapes her, leaving raw lust in its wake.

And Cullen, Cullen smirks- lopsided, smug and utterly irresistible.

His manoeuvre worked. She wants the win, _craves_ it. And he’ll be her prize.

Nyla shoots forward, right into his waiting defence. The sword bobs up and down, parrying as if humouring her.

Again they dance. Huffs, collisions, a feverish back and forth precede a quick flick of Nyla’s wrist, a devastatingly precise use of bland wood.

“What the-“

A handful of buttons sprays about and Cullen watches, haplessly, as his shirt comes open down to his belt.

Like the rogue she is, Nyla exploits his shock with devious glee. Her right ankle hooks in behind Cullen’s left. He hisses, recognising her intention, but it’s too late. More dust whirls up as shield, sword and six foot of defeated muscle slam into the ground.

Before he can react Nyla mounts him like a throne, the pleased smile all hers. Cullen looks up, sheepish expression betrayed by the copper, greedy glow in his eyes. The fraction of a movement, either from him, her, or both, brings their midriffs together. Hard and thick rubs against soft and warm, and both groan.

“Shall we continue this in your office, Commander?” Nyla purrs.

Cullen doesn’t bother with words, simply hums low in his throat as he allows her to pull him up.

“That is, of course,” Nyla’s grin spans her entire face as she nods at his delightfully tented pants, “if you can make it there.”


	41. Crime and Punishment (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on [this saucy snippet from Johnny Rees](http://www.whosay.com/status/gregellis/1226688?wsref=tw&code=tLGbUaa) (0:17), this is for the lovely im-not-great-at-making-up-names on Tumblr featuring.[ her beautiful Idril Lavellan](http://im-not-great-at-making-up-names.tumblr.com/post/148451865238/im-not-great-at-making-up-names-amazing)

“You’ve been a very naughty mage, Lavellan.”

The words tease the shell of her ears, stirring excitement in her tummy.

“It’s high time you answered for your crimes.”

A gauntlet clatters onto a side table, freed fingers stretch ominously.

“And the punishment shall fit the crime.”

A blonde eyebrow rises as Cullen’s scar twitches with the smug grin she’d been missing all week.

Idril’s head lowers for a coy peek from under fluttering lashes. “But Commander,” she croons, “whatever crime have I committed?”

The second gauntlet joins its twin. Broad hands interlace and thick fingers crack. He starts walking towards her, every step accompanied by his armour’s metallic clank. “You honestly mean to tell me you didn’t know…” a fumble inside his cloak, “…you’d left _this_ in my drawer _?_ ”

Mid-day sunlight breaks against the lacy rows of frills adorning the petite white knickers he holds up, stern eyebrow rising further.

Biting her lower lip, Idril finds herself walking backwards as Cullen closes in on her.

Unable to supress the grin, she accentuates it with a flicker of her tongue.

 “All while I was here for a week waiting for your return?” He takes another measured step.

“Crossing my legs over trying to concentrate on meetings?” And another.

Her shins make contact with the bed first. The heels of her hands find the mattress’ edge and she hoists herself up to sit. The brief dart of Cullen’s eyes to where her breasts bounce with the movement isn’t lost on her, and she decides he can take some more teasing. Leaning back on her elbows, she flashes the tops of her thighs from under the skirt she just so happens to wear.

Cullen makes a sound somewhere between a hum and a grunt, fist clenching by his side. He crosses the remaining distance, coming to stand between her legs.

“You naughty little mage,” a wide hand describes a tingling path up her leg, “had to leave me here with those naughty pants of yours.”

Idril’s head rolls back a fraction as she savours his touch. When she speaks her voice drops to a sultry tone, the one she knows resonates right where she wants it to. “Are you curious to know what I was doing while out in the Emprise?”

Cullen’s only answer is to grind his teeth while his other hand sneaks up her side to cup a breast through flimsy fabric.

She tries to lie back and slide up the bed but those knowing fingers tighten on her thigh, keeping her in place.

Idril swallows, letting go of a heavy breath. “Would you like to find out whether I was…,” her eyes find his as her tongue flicks out again, “…touching myself in my lonely tent at night?”

Cullen’s touch rises up further. Bracing herself for his reaction, she supresses a chuckle. His gasp coincides with the slurp his fingers make when they brush across her bare, slick centre.

“You-“ The remaining words fade into a growl as dark eyes widen.

“Yes, Commander?” Her chest rises harshly with heavy breaths.

No longer bothering with talking, Cullen simply holds her stare while he rubs tantalising little half-moons at the top of her sex.

Still sitting on the bed’s edge, Idril sighs, a flush creeping up her cheeks. “It’s good to be back,” she manages, whimpering as lust’s sweet ache crests at her apex.

But to make her come he sinks to his knees, and that skilled tongue finds her. Idril’s fingers wind into the curls she’s missed so much, combing through their softness; tightening along with her stomach muscles and pulling when she begins trembling, moaning and gushing pleasure into his face.

She’s still heaving when Cullen stands, breathing a kiss onto her forehead. Idril blinks through her blissful haze. She watches as clasps pop open and her skirt and blouse disappear, leaving her bare, surrendering to Cullen’s whim, his caress she went far too long without.

He’s hovering above her now, a hundred and eighty pounds of raw masculinity. Hard muscle presses down on eager breasts, and they sigh. Sneaking a glance down, Idril groans deep in her throat as Cullen takes himself in hand, guiding his length inside her. They hiss as he fills her.

She’s ready, has been all this time while hunting Red Templars in the blighted snow, warm and wet and wanting. And Cullen is just as starved as she, roaming every inch of her he can reach with greedy lips and deft hands.

Each buck of their hips is a _welcome back_ , a token of relief that she _is_ back, reunited here with him in this world ruled by chaos and uncertainty.

Though it’d be easy to let go and succumb her gaze remains locked to his, boring down into that abyss of lust-darkened caramel. Even when he leans in to kiss her she keeps eye contact while sucking his tongue in so deep he _mewls_.

Then her eyes do fall closed on a moan, a lustful arch of her back as Cullen’s lips leave her mouth to fasten on her ear’s tip. Idril’s toes curl, and Cullen winces, hot and raw into her ear, as her nails scrape down his spine. He keeps sucking and licking, teasing and lapping at her poor ear like he did between her legs. Tension builds up once more, sweet pressure at her midst, poignantly amplified by the way Cullen angles his hips with each downward movement, brushing past her once-more swollen pearl. Though unable to look, Idril feels Cullen’s eyes studying her features, her body, hears the groan of _yes_ as she thrashes underneath him.

And she feels his end that she’s drawing from him, holds him close when he goes rigid, grunting, spluttering her name among a rush of blissful nonsense.

When the heavens set them down they remain moulded to each other, flushed and lazy. Cullen rolls off her eventually, so sluggish he almost falls. As soon as he’s safely nestled into the mattress a thick arm curls around her midriff. The lightest of butterfly kisses graze the nape of her neck, tickling every little hair.

Cullen notices the smile in her approving hum. “What is it?”.

 

“Commander, I’m not sure if that was a very effective punishment.”

He chuckles, turning her over to face him. “Well,” a peck on the tip of her nose, “I’ll have to try again then, won’t I?”  

 

 

 


	42. Trapped (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit of the ol' Cullenlingus (^^)

She’s cornered, pushed against a wobbly shelf, fragrant bed sheets cushioning her head. Half-sitting on what could be a stack of towels, she knows her knuckles are whitening from the force of her grip on the upper shelf-board. The crammed space before her is a topography of shadows, the thin gap under the door the only light source.

She was grabbed, flung around and shoved into the linen closet when nobody was looking. Not that she minds, wedged in here with her Commander’s face at her apex. She gave up trying to stay quiet a shuddering climax and a shattered vase ago. Decorum ceases to matter when that strong, thick tongue fills her, driving in and out of her like his hard length would. When those massive palms hold her up by the buttocks with so little effort, so much masculine hunger. When he _slurps_ from her, grunts and groans his pleasure into her slickness. This time she might come from his sounds alone.

He’s caught between her legs, trembling thighs clenching around his head. His cheeks are burning, his curls damp from her warmth and her pulse is hammering in his ears. All he sees, hears and feels is her, filling his senses.

He was drawn to her, captivated by her scent, the play of her skirt around those legs and by that insane lust the Herald never fails to incite in him. Initially he tried to fight her allure but gave up, dragged her in here like the mindless brute she reduces him to. Time loses importance when she’s melting into his hands, his face. When she sighs, gasps, mewls so wonderfully at each of his licks. When his tongue is deep inside her, swirling in her honey. If he’s not careful he might find his end just from her flavour.

They’re trapped in their sheer desire, hopelessly enslaved by their utter craving, forever lost in each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!  
> [Find me (and the boys) on Tumblr!](https://http://cullenstairshenanigans.t%20Tumblr.com) ʘ‿ʘ


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